“I looked over Jordan, and what did I see
Coming for to carry me home?
A band of angels coming after me,
Coming for to carry me home.”
After a significant pause, the man said, “Be ready, Laurel, we’re coming after you.”
Laurel dropped the phone receiver on the floor, and reached out a trembling finger to sever the connection. She childishly pinched her arm to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.
She ran to the bathroom, sick to her stomach, and retched. Laurel rinsed her mouth, gulped a glass of water and staggered back to bed.
She was sorry now that she hadn’t stayed on the phone. She replaced the phone in its cradle and lay awake the rest of the night. Was there any way she could trace the call?
After she’d squirmed in the bed for several hours, Laurel got up, dressed in an ankle-length floral skirt and a soft, white cotton blouse, and quietly went downstairs. Because of the isolation of the house, she had two dusk-to-dawn security lights, which kept the grounds and the house partially illuminated all night long. Creeping along in the muted light, Laurel entered the kitchen and closed the door so she wouldn’t wake Debbie. She filled the teakettle with water and, while she waited for it to boil, placed a tea bag in her favorite mug.
Once made, Laurel wrapped her hands around the steaming cup and went to the screened back porch, where she’d encountered Micah yesterday. The front gallery contained only antique rocking chairs, but after she’d taken over ownership of the house, Laurel had made the back porch into a cozy, relaxing area.
Laurel sat on a padded lounge chair and sipped the tea as she contemplated what to do. If she’d had caller ID, she might have determined the identity of her caller, but with her limited income, she cut corners when she could, and the latest technology wasn’t high on her priority list.
When daylight dispelled the darkness, Laurel became aware of movement at her side. Remembering the threatening phone call, the cup tottered in her hand. Micah Davidson walked across the lawn. He halted when he saw her, and momentarily she wondered if he’d been the caller.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”
“Earlier than usual,” she answered. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I don’t usually sleep more than six hours, and I went to bed early. I had breakfast while I waited for enough daylight to look around. You don’t mind if I explore your property, do you?”
“Of course not. There’s a cleared path to the river if you want to go that way.”
“That’s where I was heading. Would you have time to walk with me? I could use a guide.”
“Yes, I’d like a walk,” she said eagerly. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but it might be a good idea to learn more about Micah Davidson. She swung her feet off the lounge, kicked off the soft scuffs she wore and reached under the chair for a pair of walking shoes. She quickly pulled on the socks she’d stored in the toes of the shoes, and in a few minutes had joined Micah.
Pointing to the left, Laurel said, “The best path is through the orchard.”
The lawn was neatly mowed until they reached the orchard, then weeds grew profusely in the path. Laurel’s long skirt was soon wet from the abundant dew on the grass.
“In your research of Southern homes, you’ve probably heard many stories about keepsakes the Confederates buried before the invaders came. I mentioned Oaklawn’s story to you last night. Supposedly a Cooper ancestor buried gold and silver in this orchard, but the cache was never found.”
“Not even after the war?”
“No,” Laurel said, and her eyes sparkled, temporarily replacing the pain Micah had noticed. “My father-in-law said that when he was a boy, he and his brother dug from one end of that field to the other and didn’t find any money. But the cultivation did give them a bumper crop of fruit for a few years.”
Micah gazed appreciatively at the grainfields and the lush pastureland along the river.
“Oaklawn isn’t as large as it was in the eighteenth century,” Laurel continued as they walked. “At one time, the Coopers owned a thousand acres, but they’ve had to sell parcels of land during hard times. The farm is only fifty acres now. Actually, I’m glad it’s no more than that, because I can’t even manage that much land. My neighbor, Pete Howe, rents the farmland, so I only care for the few acres around the house. I have a riding mower, so it isn’t difficult work, but it does keep me busy during the summer. Especially this year, when I want everything to look nice for the wedding.”
Although she’d hoped walking would take her mind off the mysterious phone call, it didn’t, and she lapsed into silence, trying to figure out who had called her. The singer’s voice didn’t sound familiar at all.
Micah walked slightly behind Laurel since the path was narrow, but he was aware of her downcast eyes. When she’d joined him for the walk, he’d noticed at once that she wasn’t the contented woman he’d talked with on the gallery the night before. Had something happened to disturb her, or did it take a while for her to get going in the morning?
“I’d appreciate hearing anything you know about Oaklawn,” Micah said. “I want to feature the history of the homes, as well as the architecture.”
Laurel wasn’t in the mood for visiting, but taking a deep breath and staring straight ahead as they walked, she said, “The Coopers moved here soon after the Revolutionary War. The place was a wilderness then. They lived in log cabins and had the usual troubles with the Native Americans that most settlers had. Eventually they prospered enough for Debbie’s great-great-grandfather to build the original brick house, but the Cooper wealth declined over the next century.”
When they passed a knoll where the family cemetery was located, Micah commented, “I suppose your husband is buried here.”
“No, he isn’t,” she said bluntly, because she didn’t like to think about Jason’s death.
Micah couldn’t imagine why his question had annoyed her. They were both silent as they walked downhill to the northern bank of the shallow river. A wide beach of sand and gravel had formed at a sharp bend in the stream. Overhanging trees provided a secluded area. A few ramshackle lawn chairs and a wooden bench had been placed several feet from the water. Laurel walked to one of the sturdier chairs and sat down.
“Do people go swimming or fishing here?”
“Mostly fishing,” Laurel said shortly, her eyes on the river.
Did his presence annoy her, or was she troubled about something else?
After a pause, she continued, “But there is a deep pool midway in the stream. The local boys go to the other side of the river, swing on the vines and drop into the pool. It’s a dangerous practice. One boy was seriously hurt here last summer, but they continue to swim.”
The gentle ripple of the water as it slid past them was quieting, and the peace of the place was soothing to Micah. After spending over a year in the jungle, the past three months in the States—mostly in cities—had frustrated him. The noise of traffic
